Cassandra's Complex

A whole year has passed since I fell off the face of the VOX, having made two weepy CarolAnne-like ghostlike entries since.

UPDATE: (in bulletpoint fashion, as VOX doesn't support PowerPoint)

*I have asked CalaVerde to marry me. This happened on Valentine's Day. She said yes. And there was much rejoicing (yay). Note: diamonds only increase in value and platinum is at an all time high of $2,128 and some change per/oz. I love her so. Another Note: It will be a very, very small ceremony. Please do not be offended if you are not invited. We are only poor corrupt officials here.

*San Francisco continues to be nicer than New York, except the public transportation is not as reliable as that in NYC. My new job continues to be a Bitch Goddess but I like it (C'mon I take more $15 cab rides to it to get there on time when the shitty Muni bus is late than I ever did working in New York, something must be right.)

*I still don't write enough. When I talk about writing I mean the writing I care about. If I were to supply you with my real name you'd get a veritable shitload of Google entries, but that's not the writing I'd care to be known for. Still, at my new job I take pride in what I do currently. Golly, I'm more a team player than I ever was.

*I've come to the conclusion, now that I have passed into my 40s officially, that Life doesn't get any easier (and I don't even have kids yet!!!) All you who, like I have been for the last few decades, are holding out waiting for the Golden Moment, dig deep and weather it. Fucking act now! Supplies are limited!

*Having read the many entries by HotRod I am pained that I missed KttD VIII. It hurts, it hurts. I coulda been a contender.

That is all,
Doc

Well, I'm looking to rant. Well, not really, more like a revisitation to the old lodge, where the crickets chirp and the parties of old are but a memory to the wisty eye of the author. No matter.

I wanna rock. Or something to that tune. I have completely dissed the Vox community at large, or at least the peoples who give a rat's ass as to what I say, all for good reason mind you. I simply don't know how you people fit the time into your day to post. I am very impressed down here, I can tell you.

So, what, do I post more? Do I tell you more about my mundane observations about life? I don't know. Does anyone care? At 6:40 am every morning, the homeless folks park their shopping carts at California St. and Battery St. at the Starbucks for coffee. Somehow, I am fascinated by this. Discuss amongst ya'selves.

"Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard.
Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.
Travel."

-- From the Commencement Address Kurt Vonnegut never gave (or wrote) (version for you illiterate music lovers here)

Prodigal

It’s been six months. What happened? Somewhere along the line I lost my sense of humor, or humour for you of the limey persuasion. It wasn’t even in the last place I saw it. Things were bad, and as is usually the case when things get bad, one denies vociferously (that’s right, I said vociferously!) that anything is bad.

In my last entry, or more accurately in the flame war that followed my last entry, I basically lost my shit. In a nutshell, I was grossly insulted by the fact that someone thought I was insulting them when I believed that was anything but the case and felt there was no need to explain that because it wasn’t my problem they thought I had insulted them, it was theirs.

Here’s the funny part: I waged this flame war at work, on company time, when I supposed to be doing other things that weren’t getting done. I was noticeably upset by it. Couldn’t this have waited for a time after work when I had cooled down? Fuck no! I’d been slapped with a duelin’ glove and I was going to strike back with righteous indignation immediately. After all was said and done, I just stopped posting. I didn’t need this shit, and if those offended couldn’t figure it out on their own then fuck ‘em. There was a point to all this: something about participating in a game on my own terms that my friends played that I had heretofore shunned and not being able to take it or some demented raison d’etre like that.

Odd, over the top, and vaguely smelling of Bullshit (get past 2:20 on the clip, please). Then again, I always thought the Trojan War, which was triggered by the abduction of Helen, to be odd, over the top and vaguely smelling of Bullshit. And World War I? Who the fuck really cared about the Archduke Ferdinand anyway?

So, I apologize for allowing myself to fall off the face of the earth. And I apologize for losing my sense of humor. It’s taken a while to get it back, or at least recognize some semblance of it.

It’s six months later. I am in a different place. Literally. I moved to San Francisco from New York City. My girlfriend landed a sweet gig out here, and we both felt it was only a matter of time before one of us would be arrested for stabbing someone in the neck on the subway. Since I believe in long-distance relationships the same way I believe in the Tooth Fairy, I took the blind leap, left “the best job I ever had” (truly) to risk being a character in an Otis Redding song, because when you get down to it, I wasn’t happy in doing what I was doing and where I was doing it anymore. I’d always had the childhood dream of living in New York City as a writer, but like a character out of The Monkey’s Paw, I hadn’t been specific enough. Plus, Kurt Vonnegut died in April so there was little chance of me running into him anymore.

What am I doing now? For now, I am a well-kept man who makes a mean split-pea soup and a chickpea-mushroom lasagna from scratch. I have someone in my life whom I truly love, even though love isn’t the same as what I took it to mean 10 to 20 years ago, and I’m actually in a place where I can appreciate all this for what it is. I’m looking for something that’ll occupy me outside of the house -- an “occupation” as it were -- that doesn’t suck the soul out of me, so I can no longer conveniently use it as an excuse for not having the energy to write what I’d rather be writing. And the writing that I have been doing thus far has been the kind I want to do. You won’t see it here for now because I’m still old-school, or insecure, or afraid the Kaiser will steal my string, that way.

I have to admit that when I stopped posting to VOX, I stopped reading it save for Soo’s rare posts that I had RSS’ed beforehand and the odd post that Soo had forwarded me in a loving attempt to persuade me to stop being such a dick. With that said, if there is something in the last six months I missed that I MUST read, please call the link to my attention.

Will I go from being a pompous, arrogant New Yorker Patrick Bateman-Wannabe to a smug, self-satisfied San Franciscan Karl Marx Brother overnight? Probably not. Eventually. Perhaps. I already wear flip-flops with socks on occasion because they’re comfortable. We all know that’s the slippery slope.

If you’ve missed me, then you have my deepest gratitude. If you haven’t, then why the fuck did you read this far? I’ll try not to let another six months go by without saying anything. Even if it is to launch egregious ad hominem attacks on my friends without shame. Sure, I’m not above it. It’s the fun I haven’t been allowing myself. And if they decide they want to castigate me for my change of heart, well, that just shows they’re big pussies anyway.

And since I have no appreciation for music whatsoever, this is the piece of trash I most recently bought from iTunes that makes me as happy as a little girl.

The Paradox is In

My co-worker came across this one today: Involuntary Emotional Expression Disorder, a distinct neurologic disorder characterized by involuntary laughing, crying, and other emotional outbursts often in inappropriate situations. It is also known as pseudobulbar affect and emotional lability.

"I know people who must have this," my co-worker said to me. "I've dated people who have this."

So, this got me to thinking in my doctorly way ("I'm not a doctor, but I play one on the Internet") to raise awareness of other little-known debilitating syndromes.

Pediatric Hypernarcissism (a.k.a. "Spoiled Brat Syndrome"): Developmental disorder exacerbated by repeatedly inflating child's already huge ego ad nauseaum with sentiments that they are "special," and responding to natural childish outbursts with fear and appeasement strategies.

Involuntary Bitch Slap Disorder, or "Pimp Hand": You're talking to a co-worker about how the Oscars have become more socially conscious or the shame of Britney's meltdown and all of a sudden "SUUU-MACK!!" You become the victim of someone with IBSD. Please give generously to the Doc Paradox Legal Defense Fund.

Bloggerhea: A pathological condition presenting as an accentuated compulsion to blog every thought, opinion, dream, observation that crosses one's consciousness no matter how insignificant, and without any regard as to whether anyone may find it the least bit interesting. Also presents as a compulsion to post puppy and child photos.

Insecurity Overcompensation Disorder (a.k.a. "Asshole's Disease"): The inability of the sufferer to distinguish personal opinion, taste, likes/dislikes from empirically proven facts. A sufferer of IOD will often engage in long, heated arguments that border upon ad hominem attacks on why certain musical bands and/or sports teams are the best or worst. Sufferer exhibits hyperjudgmentality (i.e., use of the judgmental "That sucks. You're retarded." rather than a statement of preference "I do not like it. I guess we have different tastes.") Cartoonish overinflation of superiority and smugness are also symptomatic of IOD.

Knowwhatimeania: A speech impediment where the sufferer punctuates conversation with a series of "ums," "likes," "you knows," "yos," and/or "kna-means." Can be treated with speech therapy or concerted public embarrassment. Step one to confronting the condition is to reassure sufferer that every time they say "You know what I mean?" you in fact do not know what they mean, and would probably be able to concentrate on what they are saying better if they stopped saying "You know what I mean?" every 10 fucking seconds.

Yesterday was my birthday. I received that Y chromosome meaning I am genetically predisposed to not remind people of this fact or announce it beforehand. You either know or you don't. If you don't, you ask at some point, "Hey Dawg, when be the anniversizzary of yo bizzerth?" And you mark the date on your calendar, or in your personal digital assistant, and buy the birthday boy a 40 of the finest malt beverage known to man to honor the occasion.

So don't feel bad if you didn't wish me a Happy Birthday. My Baby remembered and gave me the most wonderful birthday in the world yesterday, so wonderful as to make up for all you lousy bastards who forgot. You should thank her.

How was it wonderful? I don't tell people what to get me. I leave it up to them. It's tacky to ask for something unless you are a child giving the lowdown to your parents. My Baby bought me a beautiful writing desk (complete with straightbacked chair) that my computer fits on. It even has enough room to clear things away if I want to compose in longhand. She even packed the drawers with stolen office supplies.

Yesterday was mine, she told me. Dinner was planned and a surprise. But during the day we could do whatever I wanted. Seeing that going down to the Center of Hell to go to Dave & Buster's on a Saturday would have resulted in a bad situation (I can't help it. I grew up as a mall rat where the arcade was the center of all that was holy and transcendent, filled with driving games and shoot-em-ups) I said I wanted to go bowling, something we have never done together, not even on a date, or a lost bet. We braved the harsh winter and gales coming off the half-frozen Hudson to go to Chelsea Piers. But when we got to the bowling alley there, we were informed that there was a one hour and 45 minute wait for a lane (because of all the fuckin' birthday parties). I'm not even a good bowler, nor is My Baby, but there is something viscerally satisfying on a base animal level about hurling a heavy ball down a meticulously polished alley toward 10 doppelganger nemeses.

Since we didn't feel like waiting, My Baby asked if I wanted to go ice skating instead. Now I haven't been ice skating for over a year, and I'm even a worse ice skater than a bowler, but, it sounded fun so we went.

Doc is not graceful on skates. I scare children. I've been on skates maybe a half-dozen times in my life. I am not good. I can say that I scored a personal best by not falling down once in the 30 to 45 minutes I was on the ice. I came close a few times, especially when some 9-year-old punk stops in front of me like an NHL center and I flail wildly trying not to hit him while screaming an audible "Fuck!" around the parents with their toddlers, and the 9-year-old skate punk in the Rangers jersey flashes me a look like "Shit, Old Man, you don't belong on the ice."

Skating brings out the child-hating in me. They hold it against me that they've spent proportionally more of their lives on the ice than me, and they know it. Even so, I had fun believe it or not. As soon as I took off the skates, my thankful lower back, legs and calves, rewarded me with quarts of giddy endorphins to my brain. I felt 20 pounds lighter and My Baby wondered why I was giggling so much.

After some much needed rest at home, we took a cab down to the secret dinner place. My parents called me in the cab and they wished me a Happy Birthday. Perfect. We arrived at Mi Cocina in the Meatpacking District because My Baby knows that I appreciate Mexican food, of which the good kind is so difficult to find here in New York.

When we got to the place, My Baby went to the host and said her name followed by "party of six." Six? Six? Who the hell?... In a few seconds I tried to fill in the gaps, figuring, oh shit, she invited my best -- although not always available -- friend Soo and his lovely girlfriend T. But who were the other two?

I was right, and found that the other two were Soo's beautiful mother, who adopted me in 1999 as the older brother that Soo never had, and her boyfriend.

I was floored. I have never had a surprise party in my life. Not even as a child, because I never really had any friends and child actors were so pricey in those days. We had a beautiful dinner that lasted for about 3 hours. I was so damn...oh what feeling am I stretching for?...happy. I was surrounded by people who loved me, when loving me is not an easy thing to do seeing I'm given to habits designed to keep people away. You can't buy that. Sometimes it's hard to imagine that you are even worthy of it, but there you are, and the feeling is indescribable.

I'm so damn lucky. My Baby is the Greatest. And I love her so.

I've read the many posts devoted to this grand spectacle that graces the D.C. Metro area every President's Day Weekend honoring the most hallowed of all national past times: heavy drinking and atrocious singing. As a former champion of Karaoke to the Death (KttD II) and keeper of the Lord Ramsey Cup (back when it was modestly called "The Turkey Plate") I've decided to chime in and impart my wisdom garnered from the four competitions in which I have participated if for no other reason to lower the bar for those wishing to compete and make for a truly abominable cavalcade of ear-bleeding chanteusery.

As we all know, the prime directives of KttD are "You must try," and "You must suck," with the caveat that "Thou shalt not tank," meaning you cannot intentionally sing below your natural singing abilities or else such villanry will be sniffed out by the judges-at-large.

We have also seen in the copius amount of literature on the competition that the one way any non-tone deaf individual with a vocal range wider than a half-octave can hope to win is by choosing their song carefully. Some experts have said that song selection is half the battle while some newer research has estimated that song selection can account for up to 65 percent of a singer's success, or in the language of KttD, abysmal failure.

Selecting the right song that will maintain a singer's integrity -- in that the singer tries their best to sing well but fails causing feelings of mass nausea, migraine, and seppuku ideation in the audience -- is an arduous task. It is a Herculean effort akin to selecting Springtime For Hitler in the movie The Producers, and can sometimes have the same unintended results. I myself have agonized over my Short List, revising it almost daily, for an All Fail strategy. But how do I choose a song, Doc?, you may ask. We shall take a brief survey of the masters.

HotRod (winner of KttD I, and KttD VI - current reigning champ and man to beat): Mr. Rod's first victory was in a limited field of competition, only against competition co-founder Dabysan, so for purposes of instruction, we shall only examine his showing in KttD VI, which brought him his only victory in Modern Times. Mr. Rod won the competition with a truly horrible ear-piercing rendition of Duran Duran's "Wild Boys." Not only was this song grossly out of his vocal range, but it was popular enough for everyone to remember and shudder verily. Plus the homoerotic overtones of the song played into Mr. Rod's favor seeing that the singing of the song itself made this manly-man horribly uncomfortable on stage. But these are the sacrifices one makes for their art, and it proved a winning combination. Mr. Rod's earlier selection in the evening was Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone," showing that his strategy for the evening was to choose songs that were grossly out of character.

Myself (KttD II): Sing all the parts of an incredibly difficult song written for multiple singers that you love to the best of your ability with gusto. A third-party account can be found here.

Bill Ramsey (KttD III): Mr. Ramsey, a 6' 2" bear of a man with a boyish face from southern Virginia who seems more at home drinking likker with the good old boys, chose Tina Turner's "Private Dancer." Not only was the song tragically out of character and made the audience want to wash their ears in a Lady Macbeth fashion, but the Axl Rose-like interpretation (basically the way Bill sings) scarred us all forever, bad enough that the KttD trophy was named after him. Again, grossly out of character is a popular strategy that can be used to great effect.

Soo Doh Nim (KttD IV): Mr. Soo picked a very weak pablum-like song that most of us would have liked to have forgotten, Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al." Soo's atonal rendition coupled with his jerky stage presence made this the worst performance of the evening, showing that a performer must not only be bad, but get the crowd on their side.

Dabysan (KttD V): Mr. Daby sang a Chicago song, "If You Leave Me Now." In some countries this will have you shot execution-style on sight. Here we have the exquisite combination of a much-hated diabetes-inducing song that was tragically out of the singer's vocal range. Unfortunately, I was not there for the event, something for which I give many thanks.

See you all at Kttd VII. Excelsior! Many thanks to Vanna's continued coverage and hard work. And remember: choose your songs wisely!
 

It's always flattering to see that both the New York Post and the New York Daily News, two of the classiest non-complimentary tabloids to litter NYC subways, have looked toward the good folk here at Cassandra's Complex for ideas on their Page One coverage.

It's tragic. Someone snapped. Everybody's making fun of her. She needs serious help. I'd go for the insanity plea. But I feel especially bad when I hear her referred to as "the mother of three."

Good Lord. Those poor fucking children. You think you had a rough childhood? You think your parents embarrassed you growing up? Which is worse: hearing "Your mamma wears diapers and drives!" now, or "Wasn't your mother that astronut who went kooky and drove 900 miles in diapers?" later on some future job interview.

I heard the newscaster say "The mother of three landed in Houston today..." and my internal dialogue picked up with "where all three of her children said 'You're damn fucking right I'm not going to school today. In fact I'm not going back to school ever. In fact, I'm moving to France. Like now.'"

So people, before you decide to snap (or sometime after you have snapped and you're on that 900 mile drive) to go do something selfishly stupid that's likely going to land you on the front page of the NY Post or the NY Daily News along with the rest of the daily news, please think of your children.

Florida never ceases to amaze me. On the one hand, it is the home of our national space launch pad, has some of our most beautiful beaches, and has cosmopolitan jewels like Miami. On the other hand, it was the state that first handed us George Bush as President, houses such cultural train wrecks as the People's Republic of Disney, and seems to be our national stage for weird redneck behavior.

Case in point: When astronauts stop being polite and start getting real.

I guess it's a good thing these two (or three) never made it up on the Shuttle or the International Space Station together. On the other hand... Maybe The Real World: International Space Station is not too far off.

My favorite line of the article: Nowak raced from Houston to Orlando wearing diapers in the car so she wouldn't have to stop to go to the bathroom, authorities said. Classy.

Before I embark on this goddamn chain letter sent me by my nemesis-like-facially-haired-humanoid Ben Martini. I've got to ask a random question: If a picture is worth a thousand words, does that make a Hollywood movie a 129 million word novel you can read in 90 minutes? (Insert A.W.E.S.O.M.-O "Lame" and/or "Weak" here.)

1) Foods, tastes, I can't stand: Anise or any black licorice-flavored thing like Sambuca or Ouzo, Caraway seeds, cheap blended Scotch, fennel, cloves (in food or cigarette form), Scrapple. My Sweetie Baby (see #4) shares these same dislikes, perfect, no?

2) I started watching Monty Python's Flying Circus when I was 5 years old. What my parents were doing when I was flipping channels (the old-school turning the knob way) only to find "cartoons" (Terry Gilliam's -- who to this day is my favorite director) on public TV? I have no clue. I became an instant devotee and got Monty Python's Previous Record on vinyl that Xmas, and I've been very hooked ever since.

3) I can, and will, hold lifetime grudges, and relish in doing so. Harlan Ellison is a personal hero in this regard. There's Polish-Irish-Italian DNA floating around here making for one stubborn but loyal fuck. There is a reason Judas, Brutus, and Cassius are being chewed eternally by Satan in the Center of Dante's Inferno. Betrayal is the most egregious of all sins, revenge is a dish best served cold, and I've got a freezer full of leftovers in the form of more than 20 years of journals. The only way to avoid the Mighty Wrath of Doc (and some have) is through sincere expressions of remorse and prolonged acts of contrition. But, all in all, I'm a pretty easygoin' and lovable fella.

4) I've always wanted to live in New York, but always found an excuse not to. My back to a wall, I grew the balls to move here about 3 years ago. My first memory of NYC was driving by Lincoln Center at night on a family trip when I was four. (I wasn't driving, fool! My Dad was. I was only allowed to drive locally in Camden, N.J.) The Lincoln Center area has a sacred significance to me, and good things always seem to happen around there. After all, I met the woman I'm crazy in love with _ the beautiful, sexy, smart, funny, loving CV _ right around there. She owns a high-end espresso machine, quite a plus! That, and I love her Stinky (her cat for those who need explanation) even though she makes me sneeze.

5) I have an extra big toe where my right thumb is supposed to be. No one knows why. But my niece has the same thing. It was very cool when we discovered this. We bonded. Also I make a noise that freaks everyone out when my allergies are hitting me. When the back of my throat is itching like mad, I ripple the flesh around my uvula to scratch my throat. The resulting noise sounds like tiny pigs slow-fucking. My aunt is the only other person I know who can do this. This confirms to me that I am descended from space aliens, and that resistance is futile, foolish Earthlings.

Who do I care about that ain't already been picked (or done this fool ass shit)?

(Clarification: This whole dealy is that someone tags you, you write 5 things about yourself that most people don't likely know, and then you tag 5 other people to do the same.)

Dabysan

It's Come to THIS!

Lorelei

The K Spot

Lava

If I'm wrong about you not being a pick'ed send me a fine invitation tell me to go play a nice game of "Hide and Go Fuck Yourself!"

Cheers!